Mega Indeed
by wordybirdy
Summary: Holmes discovers modern slang and begins to create his own, unique language.  Watson struggles to keep up.


"And so there it is, Mr. Holmes," said the young lady sat straight upon our sofa, as she ended her brief monologue with a dainty sniff and a dab at her eyes with a white lace handkerchief. "I do hope that you will be able to help me with this most recent development, for I have nowhere else to turn."

Sherlock Holmes raised his chin up from his steepled fingertips and frowned away into the middle distance, at an imprecise spot somewhere between the unframed picture of General Gordon and my old watercolour easel. He exhaled softly, focused, and turned to Miss Laing still sitting expectantly, awaiting his word.

"I understand your anxiety, my dear," said he, "but do not fret. Please be chill. The fresh information with which you have furnished us is exceptionally suggestive."

I stared at my friend. Miss Laing blinked moistly.

"Be...? I beg your pardon, Mr. Holmes?" said she.

"Be chill. Chill out," replied Holmes. "As in, 'relax'." He raised his fingers and mimicked air quotes. "I am sorry; do you have a hearing problem?"

"Why no, no I do not," said the young lady, glancing over to me now in some alarm. "I was not familiar with the term or its meaning. Here are details where you might contact me over the next few days as you see fit, Mr. Holmes."

And Miss Laing supplied my friend with her weekend address, and left us still with a perplexed look upon her sweet face, which I could not help but replicate to a large extent upon my own.

"Holmes," I said, when we were once more alone, "what an odd choice of word and context. And why on earth should you wish to use it with our client in such a manner?"

Holmes's head jerked in annoyance.

"Chill!" He repeated. "Chillax, my dear fellow!"

My friend seemed under the illusion that if the word was repeated sufficiently and in various formations then I would better understand its meaning. I shrugged, helplessly.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," he barked. "Isn't this how the young people speak these days?"

"I really have no idea," I said. "I have never heard the word used in such a way before."

"Well you are scarcely the man to be, er, down with the kids, as they say," Holmes replied, dismissing my opaqueness with a flutter of his hand. "And I am younger than you, my boy."

"By two years, just," I said, calm although my sap was rising.

"And now it is 1889 and you must really try to keep up, Watson," said he. "Never mind, then. Now. Miss Laing and her ongoing conundrum. Pass me my 'R' Index volume, there's a good chap."

Holmes turned the pages of the massive tome, humming and muttering under his breath. Several minutes passed before he snapped the book shut.

"Radishes," he said, thoughtfully.

"Radishes?"

"Yes, I am very much afraid, Watson. I have found the reason for our young lady's misfortune, and it is quite the fault of the radishes. I must inform Lestrade."

Holmes snatched a telegraph form from his desk drawer, and scribbled briefly upon it. "Are you heading into town this afternoon?" he asked me, laying down his pen.

"Yes," I replied, "would you wish me to send your telegram for you?"

"If you would be so kind," said he, passing it across to me.

My eyes passed across it. They braked sharply, backtracked, and re-rolled across the following:

LESTRADE I HAVE CONCLUDED MISS LAING'S CASE IN RIGHTEOUSLY EPIC FASHION STOP PLEASE DROP BY BAKER STREET AT EARLIEST CONVENIENCE STOP MOST MEGA LESTRADE MOST MEGA INDEED STOP SH

"'_Righteously epic fashion_'?" I read aloud, incredulously. "'_Most mega_'? My dear fellow..."

"What?" demanded Holmes, leaning back in his chair and twisting his head around to glare at me. "Do you think that Lestrade will not comprehend the message?"

"I think that he might only comprehend that you are losing your mind, Holmes," I replied, a frozen smile glued partially to my face and hanging on for dear life. "Would you care to talk about this?" The smile unstuck then and regressed into a grimace of concern. Holmes flinched.

"No?" he said, tentatively.

Our respective grimaces did silent battle with each other across the room.

"Please," I urged.

Holmes huffed loudly. "This conversation is _grody_-" he began, before my hand raised swiftly to silence him.

"Will you _stop that!_" I shouted. "What in heaven's name does '_grody_' mean? What does _any_ of it mean? Why are you speaking in a foreign language all of a sudden?"

"You do not like it," he said, sadly. "I spent all of yesterday afternoon filling an entire three pages of my notebook with such words and phrases, Watson."

I moved to sit down beside him, still seated as he was at his desk, his long, slender fingers tapping in agitation upon the smooth mahogany.

"Why would you do that?" I asked.

"I have a fair number of clients who are younger than myself," he explained. "I would not wish them to consider me..." and here he paused, ominously, "..._uncool_. I mean, behind the times," he added, quickly, upon seeing my face darken.

"Why should you even care what other people think?" I was doing my utmost yet to understand. "It has never worried you before. You have always been quite spectacularly appalling to clients and Scotland Yard alike without a moment's thought."

Holmes smiled widely. "Yes," he said. "I know." He brushed an invisible speck of dust from his trouser knee. "I do not believe that I will ever eradicate that side of my nature, Watson. Still, all the same, it is nice to embrace modern language a little, is it not?"

"But these are words of your own invention or manipulation, Holmes."

"To a large extent, yes, they are."

"Wouldn't you agree, then, that they might only serve to confuse rather than impress the poor soul at whom they are directed?"

Holmes shrugged. "Once the words reach wider circulation then they will become more frequently spoken. People will learn their origin. The origin will, of course, be Mr. Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street." My friend's chest puffed a fraction. "I would not care to be remembered for detection work alone," he added.

"So you have invented an entire litany of mumbo-jumbo to hurl randomly at unsuspecting friends and colleagues," I said, shaking my head. "I really must protest, Holmes."

Holmes ignored me. His expression brightened. "I have created a most excellent word that might express elation, or excitement," said he. "May I share it with you?"

I sighed. "Please do."

"Squee!" said Sherlock Holmes.

"I beg your pardon?" I asked, for what truly felt like the tenth time that day.

"You heard," said my friend. "Isn't that the most perfect word? It will be in wide usage one day, Watson. When the people say '_Squee!_', why, their thoughts will turn immediately to Sherlock Holmes."

"I think it very unlikely," I replied, "but do continue to flatter yourself with that bizarre notion, my dear fellow."

Whereupon my friend turned back to his writing desk and re-opened his notebook, and from time to time thereafter I heard the deepest of chuckles emanating from that charismatically ramshackle and untidy corner of our sitting-room.


End file.
